I Slipped A Little White Lie
by SkyWideOpen
Summary: They're so unlike, really. The consultant detective and unrepentant sociopath, and the model who spends her nights gazing at stars. But in a small way, they're exactly the same. They're both running from a life they once lived. They're both running from a past they've left behind. In their own, small way, they've both died a little inside. Pondlock. Post-S2 Sherlock, post-S6 Amy.


**Brief preamble. It's a Sherlock/Amy – post-Reichenbach Sherlock, late-S6/post-S6 Amy. A little dark, very character-centric, some rough language and occasional violence. Not entirely fixed where it's going at this stage – as is my norm. But it will most likely be AU – minor at first (this is a crossover, after all), then strongly AU later. Character divergence from canon is likely. Will happily listen to feedback and advice on that front, however.**

**Don't own the characters (though I will put my little spin on them). BBC does. Title comes courtesy of the incomparable Kid A.**

**Enjoy, and please review.**

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**I SLIPPED A LITTLE WHITE LIE**

_They're so unlike, really. The consultant detective and unrepentant sociopath – and the model who spends her nights gazing at stars. But in a small way, they're exactly the same. They're both running from a life they once lived. They're both running from a past they've left behind. In their own, small way, they've both died a little inside._**  
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**I. The Problem**

* * *

Sherlock had a problem.

It wasn't a major problem. Nor was it one that occupied him at all hours of the day. But it was one that buzzed in his subconscious, needling and eating away at him. Indeed, it wasn't even the problem that was irritating him.

The problem, really, was that he didn't know what the problem was.

It wasn't that he was, officially, dead. If Sherlock Holmes was being honest with himself – and, as a general rule, he was – he would have to conclude that dead was quite a nice state of being. Peaceful – relaxing, even. No irritating phone calls, no media scrum, no Anderson and no banal, boring clients rotating through his door.

On the other hand, however, he would also have to conclude that death was quite dull. Nice, but dull. Granted, he didn't miss neither his infuriatingly over-inflated public persona, and nor did he miss the line of _someone-stole-my-five-hundred-pound-watch_ type queries. Nonetheless, enforced solitude did have its downsides. He was still living in London, being far too lazy to move (though he certainly wouldn't admit _that_ to himself). The small apartment he'd appropriated for himself via means only he could explain was comfortable enough, if small and lacking in laboratory facilities. So that wasn't the problem.

The problem certainly wasn't a lack of anonymity. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. He'd lost count of the number of effortlessly crafted false identities he'd made for himself over the past two months. It was laughable, really, just how easy it was. Even his neighbours – in the loosest sense of the word only – didn't recognise him from day to day. No, that wasn't it.

Neither was there a lack of activity to engage him – crime was so rife in this neighbourhood that he barely needed to turn his head, and there would be a nice unsolved case presenting itself to him, just inviting him to apply his skills. Unfortunately, it quickly turned out that said cases were, well... _easy_. Fours of out ten. Fives. The occasional six, a seven if he were lucky. But they were cases, they took up time, and occasionally he enjoyed himself. So no. That wasn't the problem.

He'd tried occupying himself in other ways – reading, for instance. And not just his usual staple of journals and blogs, but actual novels. Fiction. Frankly, the concept still mystified him to an extent – why someone would deliberately take time out of their short, generally meaningless lives to escape to an even less meaningful fantasy land was beyond him. As a result, the experiment had been short lived.

The thought crossed his mind briefly that he should drop the pretence, can the disguise and return to 221B, but only briefly. That would have simply created more complications than necessary.

Besides, that part of his life was over. Gone. Done. In the past. Committed permanently to memory, as a standing reminder of the dangers of overexposing himself.

After all, that's what it'd come down to at the end. Overexposure. And in the process he'd weakened himself. Whilst only a Moriarty could have exploited it, it would have been the height of arrogance to assume that only one Moriarty existed in this world. As a result, he'd become a ghost... and the stories told him that you couldn't hurt a ghost.

So, no, not being at 221B wasn't the problem either. Watson, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade – they were in the past. All of them.

Even so, he had a problem. Whilst the chilled spring night-time and the cold sodium lights of London town gave him enough solitude that he could think clearly, his long, anonymous walks through the neighbourhood proved no help. He wrapped his full-length overcoat around himself more tightly, obscuring his face yet further to hide the disquiet within.

It turned out even Sherlock Holmes couldn't solve a problem without knowing what it was.

* * *

But he wasn't the only one with problems that couldn't be solved. He wasn't the only one with a past he couldn't explain. And he certainly wasn't the only one taking a long walk in this neighbourhood.

He first met her at the corner of a housing estate, the brickwork looming imperiously over them as he turned the corner – and strode straight into her. She stumbled over, losing both her balance and belongings and ending up in a mess on the ground.

"Sorry," she mumbled sheepishly, in a lyrical Scottish-tinted voice. "Wasn't looking."

"Yes, well, it's hard to be surprised if collisions occur if you fail to even _look_ at your surroundings," he replied, glancing down at her with raised eyebrows.

The woman was wearing an overcoat almost identical to his – thick, black, and reaching right up beyond her chin. Even in the pervasive orange glow of the streetlights, he could make out the base of thick ginger hair, tied up and hidden behind a navy-blue beanie.

Evidently he wasn't the only one here trying to be invisible.

"You're the one who knocked _me_ over," she countered, though she did accept his hand to pull herself up, dusting herself off once she was upright. "Thanks anyway," she continued in a slightly gentler tone.

He eyed her briefly. She was young, certainly in her early-twenties, but Sherlock suspected that he could see the first signs of age-lines around her bright green eyes – far more than there should have been at her age. He could also see streaks of unwashed makeup there, thickly and repeatedly applied. Abnormally thick – an actress, perhaps? Maybe a model. The overcoat and gloves made it difficult to deduce anything further without further thought – perhaps that was the reason she wore them.

What _was_ clear was that given her shapely figure, full, healthy cheeks and reasonably valuable coat, she was most certainly not a local. That, however, simply raised further questions.

Who was she? Why was she here?

"This neighbourhood is less than safe. Even less so for someone like you," he told her. He was not so naïve to overlook how female appearances could make certain people react. "I suggest you leave here immediately."

She cocked her head, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly. A subtle gesture – defensive, yet at the same time challenging. "I'm a big girl. I can handle myself."

He raised his own eyebrows, this time in scepticism. "I'm sure you can."

Her lips curved upwards. "Just watch me."

She brushed past him without another word, turning the corner and striding down the brick-lined street.

His gaze lingered after her curiously for a few seconds, before he straightened his collar again to cover his face once more. He had completely cleared his mind of the incident by the time he reached the next corner.

* * *

It wasn't like Amelia Pond to take walks.

Long walks that lasted hours, winding through the various neighbourhoods of East London. She'd told Rory that she'd be out for a while, but she didn't tell him where she was going. One, because she rarely knew beforehand. And two, because he would probably flip if he knew she was here – she was perfectly aware of this neighbourhood's reputation.

But she didn't care. Since when did Amy Pond care about a few muggers? She'd had enough guns pointed at her in her time to not overly fear the experience. Though, to be fair, at those times she had the Doctor to help her out.

And she didn't now, did she?

He wouldn't be there to help her ever again. He'd never help anyone again.

She remembered it all, of course. In the world where time had frozen, she'd tried. She fought, she'd struggled, she'd tried absolutely everything in her power – but, in the end, time always won. Time dictated that the Doctor had to die.

So he had.

She'd known, of course. Within herself, she'd known for months and months. Not that it had made the moment easier, but it did mean that she could deal with it. She accepted it. It didn't break her. _Nothing_ broke her. And if that meant she had to take long walks in less-than-pleasant parts of her new hometown to deal with it a bit better, then so be it.

She was striding down yet another long stretch of pavement when her phone double-beeped, piercing the low buzz of the city surrounding her. She pulled out the phone, quickly scanning through her husband's text message. Apparently there was some emergency at the hospital, Rory had said. He needed to pull an all-nighter and wouldn't be home until mid-morning, he'd told her with an apology at the end. She pocketed the phone again. At least _he_ seemed to be getting on with normal life.

_He_ didn't spend his nights dreaming that one day, some day, she'd hear that stupid noise, and see her best friend's face again. _He_ didn't look up to the stars at night, wondering if maybe he had somehow escaped, but had forgotten to tell her. And _he_ certainly didn't wish that her raggedy man would drop in one day, so she could yell and scream at him until she was blue in the face, and get him to solve all the stupid problems in her screwed-up life.

But, of course, her raggedy man wouldn't. Not now. Not ever.

"You alright, missy?"

She stopped dead in her tracks, an inaudible gasp escaping her lips. She'd been so deep in her reverie that she hadn't seen him until she was barely feet away. The man had been leaning against the brickwork in the shadow of the tree, which is why she hadn't seen him.

She gave her best false smile – which, to be fair, was pretty damn good.

"I'm right, thanks." She considered brushing past him, but there was something about his unshaven looks, his torn jacket and, well, the way his dark, glittering eyes had _raked_ over her that she didn't like. She didn't like it one bit. Maybe if she turned politely and went the other way, then-

"Really?" He asked in a somewhat amused tone, his voice jagged and rough. "I'm not so sure about that. Girl like you in this place, after all..."

She didn't even wait for him to finish his sentence. She turned on her heel and marched down the street as quickly as she could without breaking into a sprint. However, she could hear footsteps behind her.

"Where you going, missy? Just want a friendly chat. That's all," he called after her in a voice that sounded anything but friendly. She broke into a sprint, running full-tilt back the way she'd come.

_Come on, come on, move. _Though her long legs did their best to propel her, the coat was constantly getting in their way, impeding her. _So this is why I usually don't wear clothes like this._ She swore to herself, cursing her stupidity in coming this way in the first place. She didn't even know where she was going – somewhere vaguely back towards where she'd bumped into that guy with the coat. He'd seemed friendly enough; if she could just-

"Not so fast."

The man had caught up with her, grabbing her wrist. She cried out as he pinned her wrist awkwardly against a brick wall.

"Get off me!" She could scream and struggle all she liked, tugging at her trapped hand and trying to pry the offending arm away with her free hand. Unfortunately, he was clearly much stronger than her, and although she was no weakling she had no chance of getting her arm loose. He leered at her, grinning maliciously.

"Now, missy, it's rude to run away when someone tries to talk to you."

"Go to hell," Amy spat at him, her face twisting with anger and hatred. "If you don't let me go, then-"

"Then what? All I wanted was a chat – and whatever's in your pockets."

Amy had to resist the temptation to roll her eyes.

Robbery. Here she was, Amelia Pond, who'd saved star whales, had briefly been a pirate and had run a global paramilitary organisation in an alternate timeline – and now she was the victim of a r_obbery._

If the situation wasn't so serious, she'd have burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. But it _was_ rather serious, so instead she gave the man her finest death glare, whilst at the same time sizing up her options.

"If you think I'm just gonna hand my shit over, mister, you got the wrong girl," she snarled at him, her eyes roving for an opening. Her legs, she noticed, were still free...

His grin widened, and with his free hand he reached into his pocket, pulling out a single black object. Amy's breath hitched in her throat as he aimed the gun at her chest, her face now bone-white. So it was now an armed robbery. _Brilliant._

"I'm gonna count to three. Believe me, losing a few quid isn't the worst that could happen to you."

She gulped, beginning to struggle uselessly against his hand once more.

"One."

Where was that guy with the coat? She could really use him right now. Or her husband. Or her dead best friend.

"Two." The gun made its way under her chin, settling there even as she writhed away from it, her breathing uneven and her heartbeat racing. "Thr-"

"_Okay! _Okay." The words spilled out of her mouth in a rush, her eyes locked on the gun pressed against her jaw. One movement, she knew, one mistake, and it would be goodbye to Amy Pond. Or worse. "Just – just hang on, OK?"

Her hand was trembling so violently that it took more than one go to get it into her pocket, but eventually she managed to extricate her wallet. The man pocketed the gun, so he could take the wallet, briefly taking her eyes off her – which was all the opportunity she needed.

Without warning, she brought her knee up and drove it straight between the man's legs. He crumpled, crying out, and she waited for him to let go of her wrist, so she could flee-

-but he didn't. Instead, he twisted it so violently that she let out a piercing scream, her legs buckling as the twist doubled her body over lest her arm be ripped from its socket. But that wasn't the worst of it.

Before Amy could even react, he had retrieved his gun and pistol-whipped her across the jaw, knocking her to the ground. Stars exploded in Amy's eyes and she could taste the salty tang of blood in her mouth, her jaw feeling as if it had been shattered into a thousand pieces. Dazed, she tried to turn over to get her bearings – but was stopped by the cold press of metal against her temple.

"Bad mistake, missy," he hissed, his breaths heavy and uneven. From the corner of her eye, Amy could see his face, contorted by sheer rage. She turned away, not wanting that to be what she saw when it all came to an end, trying desperately to conjure an image of her boys. Her Rory. Her Doctor.

She closed her eyes, keeping them fixed in her memory. Maybe she'd be seeing one of them soon...

"Say your prayers," he whispered.

"No. Say _yours._"

She opened her eyes once more – just in time to see a dark blur above her. The man's eyes widened as he turned around, spinning the gun around to aim at the newcomer – right into a waiting palm.

The newcomer wrenched the gun from his hand, grabbing the barrel and, in a single fluid movement, slammed the butt of the pistol into the man's temple. The man fell to the ground and moved no more. The newcomer, for his part, paid no further attention to him, instead pocketing the gun and standing over Amy.

"I thought I told you to leave," the black-coated man told Amy in a cold, hard tone.

"Yeah, well, listening isn't my strength," Amy muttered, spitting out the blood in her mouth and cleaning herself off as best she could. She pushed herself upright with her hands, not waiting for her to an extend a hand anyway. "Thanks anyway. How'd you get here so quick?"

"A woman screaming in public is unusual even in this neighbourhood."

"Fair enough. Thanks again." She dusted off her jacket and turned to leave – but she'd barely taken two steps before another strong hand wrapped itself around her wrist. Fortunately, not the same wrist that had been so nastily twisted by the now-unconscious vagrant. She shot a glare at him, trying to break free – she wanted nothing more to do with men trying to grab her. But he didn't let go.

"You're hurt," he told her firmly. "You need to get to a hospital."

"I'm fine_,_" she replied forcefully, though the ripples of pain in her jaw that accompanied every word begged to disagree.

"Your jaw might be broken, or at least cracked. At a minimum, you should-"

"I'm _fine,_ I'm telling you." The last thing she wanted was to accidentally run into Rory when she was in this state. "I can handle myself."

"Yes, because that worked out _so_ well the last time," he quipped in return.

"I'll catch the nearest cab home. I'm not about to make the same mistake twice, I'm not stupid."

"You were willingly walking around one of the most dangerous parts of the country, at night, without protection, having declined free advice to remove yourself from the area – on that basis, I would strongly disagree."

She glared at him. "Are you such a dick to all the people whose lives you save?"

"Yes."

She raised an eyebrow. "Right. Well, thanks for the help, but I'm _fine._"

He didn't let go of her arm. "Give me your phone."

She recoiled slightly, taken aback by the request. "Why? Where's yours?"

"I live off-the-grid. Give me your phone."

"For what? So you can pinch it?"

"I just saved your life, and have done nothing but help you for the last half-hour. Do you really think it likely that I would then steal your phone?"

She couldn't exactly with argue with that logic. Hesitantly, she reached into her pocket and handed over her phone. He took it and quickly began to work it over, first apparently reading something on-screen and then entering a message of some kind. Less than thirty seconds later, he handed it back for her to inspect suspiciously.

"What was that all about?"

"Telling your husband not to worry about you, you'll be back by the morning."

She did a double-take – she hadn't told him about Rory. She hadn't even _mentioned_ Rory. "How'd you-"

"Oh, please. The last message was from a certain Rory telling you he had an emergency night shift. Number one. Number two, given your aversion to going to the hospital, there's obviously something about them you don't want to see – or, more specifically, someone you don't want to meet." He seemed to be gathering pace as he spoke, clearly enjoying himself.

"The night shifts end in six hours," he continued, checking his watch for emphasis, "which matches rather nicely with implication of the message, no? But of course, if this Rory were just a colleague or friend, you wouldn't concern yourself so much about being seen in this state – that you do suggests this he is not. And, finally," he gestured at her gloved hand. "Your glove has a bulge in it. Rather ornate, based on its size – how much did it cost, I wonder?"

Amy blinked several times, her mouth hanging loosely open. It wasn't that she hadn't seen that sort of intellect, that deductive capacity before – she had. In one other person.

"What's your name?"

He raised his eyebrows, his eyes widening slightly as he let go of her arm. She didn't move. "Interesting. You don't seem all that shocked."

"You don't know nearly as much about me as you think," she replied as evenly as she could, though blood was beginning to pool in her mouth again. "What's your name?"

He opened his mouth – before visibly hesitating.

"Ignatius."

"Ignatius...?"

"Just Ignatius."

If she found this strange, she didn't show it. She extended her good hand out towards him. He glanced at it briefly, appraising, calculating, before accepting.

"Amy Pond."

* * *

**Ignatius is one of Arthur Conan Doyle's middle names.**

**I find Amy – especially _this_ Amy – easy to write nowadays, but this is my first attempt at Sherlock, so bear that in mind. In terms of what you'll need to know in future: Amy's character will be carrying a _lot_ of baggage, eventually right up to and including what we discover in Asylum of the Daleks. Sherlock... well, you can tell.**

**Please review, it really is writer food. And it doesn't take that long!**


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